‘What’s happening, Gavor?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know, dear boy,’ the bird replied after a mo-ment. ‘But it’s happened before. It’s all there on the Gate. Evil things are abroad and we have to fight them. The time of peace is ending. Your rest is over. Soon you’ll come to yourself.’ His voice was distant.
Hawklan looked at him. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked, for the first time in twenty years.
Gavor shook his head. ‘Dear boy, I don’t even know who I am. My life started with yours, twenty years ago, trapped by the leg in those bitter mountains.’
Hawklan put his hands to his eyes and the memory of the last few days flowed past him. Young men, proud and disciplined. Looking forward to being home and yarning of their exploits in Orthlund, for all the problems they knew they would face. Looking at least towards order and justice. Young men excitedly quizzing Isloman about the Morlider War, and then Hawklan about Anderras Darion. Making plans to visit Pedhavin again in the future. Young men patiently tending their animals, riding jauntily through the spring sunshine and quietly through the grey rain.
All gone. Swept away like dead leaves in autumn. Swept away by their worst nightmare without knowing any part of why. Irrelevant pieces in a greater game.
Hawklan’s throat tightened and abruptly, unbidden, his grief burst out. He sobbed uncontrollably for several minutes. Neither Gavor nor Isloman spoke and, when Hawklan finally looked up, Isloman’s eyes, too, were damp.
Hawklan wiped his face with a kerchief and then, almost involuntarily, began to clean his sword with it. Soon the cloth was soiled with the blood from the blade, and Hawklan’s hands too were red-streaked. He felt an overwhelming sadness as he looked down at them. Where in all Orthlund can I find a stream that would not be desecrated by washing these hands? he thought. He dragged his mind back to their predicament.
‘Where are they now?’ he asked Gavor.
‘Heading north,’ came the reply. ‘Taking all the dead with them. They’re not as cocky as they were. Between us we took quite a toll.’
‘There were no survivors at all?’ asked Isloman.
Gavor shook his head. ‘Only Jaldaric. I presume he was alive. He was thrown over a saddle and well bound. And those two outriders might be alive somewhere. I don’t remember seeing them come back.’
Hawklan wiped his eyes again with the back of his hand, and his face hardened. He stood up wearily. ‘Go and look for them, Gavor. Bring them back here if they’re alive. And find the horses. I’ve no idea where they are. We’ll stay here.’
Serian, however, needed no guide, and when Gavor returned with the two Guards, he found the great horse standing quietly by as Hawklan calmed Isloman’s mount. It was no easy task. Though uninjured, the animal was terrified.
When he had finished Hawklan spoke to Serian. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Weren’t you frightened?’
‘I’m a Muster horse, Hawklan,’ replied Serian. ‘Of course I was frightened, but I had to look after this, didn’t I? I’ll be fine. I’m sorry I lost the others. They just scattered.’
Hawklan patted Serian’s nose reassuringly and turned away to attend to the newly arrived men, Fel-Astian and Idrace. They were uninjured, but were badly shocked. It took Hawklan some time to piece their story together.
As instructed, they had ridden a wide flanking path to find and observe the approaching patrol. They had, however, overshot it and come back to the road far to its rear. By the time they had realized their mistake and retraced their steps, the battle was virtually finished. From a distance they witnessed the last of their friends disappearing under a wave of chanting Mandrocs. Then both had turned and fled in terror.
It was this last act that haunted them most.
Idrace, dark-haired and stocky, with a hooked nose and powerful deep-set eyes, talked and talked, clenching and unclenching his hands and pacing up and down fretfully.
‘All gone. Even that worm Esselt and his cronies. Died fighting while we ran away. Ran away.’ Over and over. Then he would stop, drive his nails into his palms and grind his teeth as if he could expunge his shame by slow self-destruction.
Hawklan, however, looked first to Fel-Astian who, though quieter, was probably the more affected of the two. Idrace’s remorse would temper into a formidable and unrelenting resolve, but Fel-Astian was of a different mettle.
He was not unlike Jaldaric in appearance, with fair hair and a strong build, though with a harsher, less innocent face. Sitting in the shade of a tree, he shivered continually and wrapped his arms around himself as if for protection against some outward enemy. Hawklan knew that his pain was no less than Idrace’s for all its lack of outward raging but, being turned inward, it would destroy him if it found no outlet. It would need care and understanding and all Hawklan’s healing skills to draw this man forth relatively unscathed. But it would also need time, and time was not available. Hawklan could form no plan of what he should do next, but he knew that urgency must be its hallmark.
He struck Fel-Astian a stinging blow across the face. The sound stopped Idrace in his tracks and made Isloman look up, startled. Fel-Astian jerked back and looked mildly surprised and reproachful. Hawklan hit him again. This time Fel-Astian sprang to his feet angrily, his fists raised. Hawklan swept down the extended arms effortlessly and thrust a grim face within inches of Fel-Astian’s.
‘You’re one of the Fyorlund High Guard. An elite fighting corps. You set aside your grief and suffering and consider what you must do for your country before all else.’ His voice was harsh and commanding. Isloman stared up at him, seeing once again one of the princely carved figures from Anderras Darion standing in this spring-lit glade.
Fel-Astian’s face contorted with conflicting emo-tions, but Hawklan’s countenance defied their outlet.
‘Do you understand?’ he shouted. ‘Your Captain’s taken. Your country’s undergoing some strange and awful trial, and you, alive, unhurt and armed, sit nursing yourself like a sick infant.’ There was a contempt in his voice which outweighed even that in the content of his words. He lifted his hand as if to strike the man again but, this time, Fel-Astian’s hand came out and seized his wrist powerfully. Again Fel-Astian’s face twisted painfully until, at last, a long, uncontrollable, almost screaming cry came out from him.
‘No,’ he bellowed into Hawklan’s face. ‘Sumeral take you. No. I hear you. I understand you. Damn you.’
He pushed Hawklan to one side and striding for-ward drew his sword and brought it down in a whistling arc into the soft forest turf. Then he leaned forward on to it and slowly sank to his knees as his weight forced it into the ground. Head bowed, he knelt silent and unmoving.
Idrace stood watching him, his face pale under his dark hair. Fel-Astian’s outburst had dwarfed his own loud distress.
Eventually Fel-Astian rose to his feet quietly. He withdrew his sword from the ground and, as Hawklan had done before, took out a kerchief and began cleaning the blade. He gave Hawklan an enigmatic look.
Hawklan’s face softened a little and stepping for-ward he took both of the Guards by the arm. A voice that Isloman recognized now spoke.
‘We’ve no time to dwell on matters. We can’t wait for the luxury of time’s healing. Listen carefully and remember what I say in your darker hours. You’re young and you’re strong. Your pain will pass, as does all pain, but you’ll not recover from the death of your friends. Still less will you recover from what you’ve taken to be your failure, your cowardice, in running away from their destruction. But you’ll become a little wiser.’ His grip tightened in emphasis. ‘You must learn from what has happened and what you felt. Learn so that you’ll recognize and know it again and know you can accept such things. In that way your friends won’t have died in vain.’